


Sehnsucht

by badwltch



Category: Interview With the Vampire (1994), Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Angst, Blood Drinking, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 21:57:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14902775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwltch/pseuds/badwltch
Summary: Lestat and Louis cope with their relationship while facing their own internal turmoils.





	Sehnsucht

**Author's Note:**

> Sehnsucht - a yearning for ideal alternative experiences; wistful longing.

_His father dragged him by the collar on his shirt and by the blonde tufts of his hair at the nape of his neck. When his father let him go, it was not the release he expected, but to push him on the rough stone floor of the chateau. He had run away from all of this before -- the abuse, the loneliness, the resentment. But it was an escape from hell he did not find. He was truly the least of the family -- the most unwanted brother._

__His father boomed at him again, something about what a tragedy Lestat was. Despite the situation, he had to allow himself to laugh at the irony of the unknowing theatrical words his father used. That was a dire mistake. His father only became angrier, calling it disrespect, calling him a revulsion and a disgrace to the family. An actor? How dare he go off with those lowly entertainers! He was a nobleman, not an actor in some acting troupe!_ _

__Those loud, sharp words pierced his heart and racked his body with dread and shaking fear. Lestat now only had his racing heart and adrenaline to keep him grounded. Rational and calculating thought left his head; there was only the primal instinct to flee. He pushed himself onto his feet, his fear driving him beyond any other rational thought, his legs poised to run to the door, the window even -- escaping somewhere, anywhere, but there was nowhere to go nowhere to hide. Rough and mean hands grabbed at him again, threatening to hurt him once more. But he didn__ __’t want this he didn’t deserve this he wants out he wants out, please don’t hit me don’t scream at me_ s’il vous plaît je ferai tout rien, mon père _, please I’ll do anything not to suffer this again --_ _

__

Lestat woke with a start, the same anxiety in his dream coursing through his veins and pumping heart with preternatural speed. He sat up, his head dizzy and faint, his body on alert but fatigued all the same. Blood droplets fell down his smooth face from his pale brow and upper lip to his lips. He took one deep breath after another, distracting himself with the rich colors of the gold and brown __fleur de lis__  patterned wallpaper and the intricate embroidery on his red bed comforter. The panic that remained from that mortal nightmare eased as he focused on his breathing.

But no sooner had he calmed himself did his mind begin to wander away from the dream, inching closer to a dangerous edge, where at the bottom lay a pool of sorrow and pain, a reminder of what he must forever live with -- a potentially fatal fall for a man absorbed in the fog of darkness that enraptures him during an episode in a susceptible state of mind. The rural and lonely eternal night of self-hatred is attractive for one who knows only darkness, as it is with a vampire who cannot forget but longs for the past trauma of their life.

Though his body felt heavy with distraught and exhaustion, he willed himself to his feet and to his dressing table, slowly pouring water from the simply embellished white pitcher into the ceramic basin. He rinsed the evidence of the blood off his face and neck, patting it dry with the cloth that had laid neatly folded beside the bowl.

He looked up into the mirror above the table that reflected his tousled state. Cloth still in hand near his jaw, it portrayed himself as he was: red-eyed, a frown on his face, with golden blonde hair that fell in curly waves to near below his broad shoulders. He folded the cloth back carefully, noticing that the shirt he wore now was splotched with the red of his perspiration, so he hastily peeled off and dropped the shirt on the carpet on the floor -- he welcomed the soothing fresh air on his exposed torso -- then he rummaged clumsily through his mahogany wardrobe for a clean regency shirt. A little out of fashion for this new century, but he couldn’t care less in his current situation.

The two sconces on the wall by the door were normally lit with distilled gas, but all night the gas pipes had been having issues functioning for some odd reason. He took a candle and a small brass candle-holder from one of his drawers in his mahogany table, then lit it by dipping it into the coal embers of the fireplace.

Candle in hand, he opened his door and walked out into the living area, past Claudia’s room. Her door was ajar; he thought that she must be out.

Lestat knocked on Louis’ door, then pushed it open without waiting for a response. Louis, his beautiful companion, sat on his bed in deep contemplation of a Greek copy of Marcus Aurelius’ __Meditations.__  His was briefly alarmed at Lestat’s intrusion, but his feet were still crossed as he sat up against the wood stained headboard of his bed. Lestat’s pleading blue eyes conveyed such dire loneliness as they met Louis’ calm forest-green ones.

“Mon cher?” Louis peered over his still open book with raised brows.

Lestat took the book out of his hands and laid it on the table beside his bed. Then he took one of Louis’ hands in his own as he bent down to kiss him briefly on the lips, his other hand on his cheek. Louis rose to his feet, a inquiring expression on his face.

Lestat wrapped his arms around Louis, remaining silent as he breathed in the scent of Louis’ soft black hair. His mind was already occupied with the dream from only moments ago. But it wasn’t just a dream, was it? It was real; it _had_ happened. He asked himself if he should confide in Louis. But he wouldn’t understand; he might ridicule him in his laughable vulnerable state.

He said, rather than spilling his heart and soul, “Louis, I will love you for nothing less than eternity.”

“I know,” he said, his eyes not meeting Lestat’s. Lestat placed his hand on the skin of his silky exposed neck under his short black hair. He softly grazed the edge of Louis’ jaw with his thumb. His cravat had been undone, and he was mostly fully clothed besides a few out of place items, including a pair of shoes and a coat. He clearly hadn’t changed out of his _vê _tements__ in quite a while judging from the accumulated dust on his vest he hadn’t cared to remove. Lestat brushed it off for him in a quick wave, giving him an almost sad smile.

“Now, that’s better,” he said. Lestat let himself be absorbed in the forest of his eyes, or the silky sea of dark greenish blue that, with a change of light, Louis’ eyes appeared to be. And though his clothes were messily wrought, he was still a lovely creature of the night, shrouded in the darkness of this two-story house, with only the two lighted candles by his bed to light his perfect face and wavy hair.

“Louis,” he asked softly, as he reanalyzed the potential consequences of his next question -- or rather, request: “Do you love me?”

Louis uttered a silent response -- that is, nothing at all. His lips, tinged pink still with the human that remained, were slightly apart as he looked away once again, wishing he could get away from Lestat’s hold.

He watched as Louis shifted away from him, choosing to instead stand at the window with its heavy velvet curtains which he moved slightly, allowing the view to filter through the glass. Louis moved his hand to massage the bridge of his nose and sighed exasperatedly. He said, “I would like to believe you have no ill intentions.”

“I can assure you, I came with no plan at all.” He laughed quietly, though he meant what he said.

“Then you do not mean to corner me into subservience?” Louis clasped his hands behind his back as he continued to observe the few people on the street who were out at this early morning hour.

Lestat sat on the comforter, picking up the book Louis was reading. __Meditations__ , hm? “And what is this book about exactly?” He flipped through the pages quickly, only picking up bits and pieces as he scanned the printed text.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested,” he sounded snappish in tone, perhaps a little irritated.

“Oh, well. I do love to learn,” Lestat stated as he put the book back in its place. He glanced around the room, its walls a patterned blend of flowers and connecting strokes of paint. It was furnished brown and complimented with heavy velvet curtains that drooped over the windows, one of which Louis was still turned to.

The candlelight on Louis’ bedside table illuminated one side of his hair, and presumably his face that Lestat could not see from his position behind him.

Lestat grimaced in preparation for allowing himself to speak so openly due to his current weakness of mind. “May I confess something to you?”

Louis turned to glance at his maker with a hint of disdain but seemingly infinite patience and said, “Perhaps your confession is best saved for the priest.” Louis’ sharp response incited the other man despite his weariness in his wont for attention. But Louis had the notion that perhaps it was merely a distraction Lestat desired.

“Or for a savior, and not for a person who is burdened with so many peoples’ secrets already.”

He peered out the window again, spotting a man running dangerously with a torch in his hand. Even from indoors, he could hear the loud chirps of the crickets and the hearty croaks of the frogs as the humidity thickened into a cloud of fog over the southern landscape.

Louis thought carefully about his response. “I never would have expected that from you, Catholic as you were raised. But would the Savior care to erase our sins? The blood on our hands, both innocent and evil?” He thought briefly of Claudia. “The evil that pervades your very being, your very existence?”

“I could view from miles away exactly where you mean to veer this conversation, Louis,” Lestat paused, “Despite my divergence, all I mean to allude to was you.”

Louis took a deep breath before turning around. “Anyway,” he said, “I’d like to get back to my reading if you wouldn’t mind.” He made a dismissive gesture towards Lestat, then reached for his book.

Lestat wouldn’t budge from his spot on the bed.

Louis paused beside him, looking up at the ceiling. “And it is an unfortunate circumstance I have willingly found myself in.”

Lestat stood up to leave and said sternly, “I hope you’re wrong in your assumption.” He began to walk towards the door.

“Wait,” Louis said, though wasn’t sure he heard him the first time. “Lestat.”

He stopped with his hand still on the door and glanced back to Louis.

Louis showed no sign of outward sympathy, but rather of solemn concern. Despite this, he was still radiantly beautiful. A strand of dark hair had slipped from behind his ear, another shadow on his face.

He did not follow with an explanation, but rather said as he shook his head, “I’m going for a walk. The fresh air would do me good.” He started for the door, but Lestat stopped him lightly, placing his hand on his chest.

“I’ll come with you.”

“No,” he said. “Alone.” He shoved off Lestat’s hand.

Lestat was surprised; he had meant no real harm in whatever foolish thing he might have said. But Louis had already vanished through the door into the midnight air. He rushed to the window, pulling back the heavy curtains to peer through the glass. The transparency vanished in a spot as his colder breath fogged against the hot outside air.

He wasn’t content to be denied. He would follow Louis, to watch him as he drank from his victims for both pleasure and need.

Lestat pulled on his waistcoat and lace cravat, then his coat on last. At times like these he thought the air to be too stuffy for all these excessive layers, though a beautiful combination they were. And a man could not be seen without his waistcoat -- it was necessary.

 

In his knee-high black leather boots he tracked Louis warily from afar by the faint sound of his heartbeat. The cobblestone path was lit by a few dim flaming torches -- a temporary replacement. Regardless, the nightlife of New Orleans wasn’t cut short entirely.

Louis had been careless and rash, leaving behind one of his victims with a plainly broken and bloody neck along with teeth marks, the mistake that might out their little family. She lay in graceful distress -- a silent beauty, though her dress reeked of cheap perfume and old sweat. Lestat mussed further her already undone brown hair while covering the traces of Louis’ negligence. He had no time to stand and reminisce about what she could have been had she lived.

Over by the cemetery next to a marble and stone mausoleum, Louis dropped a man near death, blood pooling around his head on the ground as he feebly begged for mercy, hands outstretched on the ground towards Louis' boot. He swallowed the last morsel of his victim’s salty blood in his mouth, then looked down in disgust at the man and whispered something harsh to either himself, the man, or both. He took a step back away from his dirty hands as the man breathed his last few breaths.

Lestat waited behind a corner to watch him, observe him as he ruthlessly disregarded his terms of morality he held so dear to heart. Even for the evildoer, Louis usually avoided stooping so low.

“I know you’re there, Lestat,” he called out in a monotone voice, not even glancing in Lestat’s direction.

He slid out of the shadows, hands in his coat pockets. He was be given to think that he had control over the situation and over his beloved, of course; but over himself? That was a question to which he wanted to prove the answer to himself.

Louis felt Lestat’s gaze like the sun on the back of his head. He said plainly, “I don’t appreciate anyone watching me hunt.”

“Yes, I know. But I like to,” Lestat said dismissively as he walked nearer to him.

“I would rather that you didn’t,” Louis said. He turned to leave, to walk past Lestat and sleep somewhere else for the day. Perhaps an enclosed stone tomb, rather than a dusty old crypt or family mausoleum. He wasn’t strong enough to bury himself in the unconsecrated dirt.

Lestat grabbed his shoulder, his hand exerting a strength of grasp that overpowered Louis’ feeble and weaker vampire frame. This stopped Louis -- and what else could he do but heed his forceful command? A protest would only serve him ill.

How could you love someone, yet feel nothing at all for them? Loathing boiled within the pit of his core; but his containment of it forbade it to spread. A strange calm permeated over him instead, flowing from his mind to his body and wrapping him in a cold sensation.

A sympathetic, almost endearing facade became Lestat’s visage -- a facade Louis didn’t trust. He met his bright blue eyes, then looked away. For some odd reason he felt guilty. Lestat had followed him against his wishes; but Louis knew he would come anyway, didn’t he? Even if it _was_ out of selfishness.

Louis put his hand on Lestat’s. He wanted to love him, he wanted to feel something, anything. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad this time; maybe he wouldn’t react so horribly this time. Everything would be fine. There was time.

He felt shame for Lestat’s caring attitude. __So unappreciative.__  Louis had heard that word too many times before, not always directed towards him.

And yet he still wanted to love him. He was empowered, high from his bloody and murderous excursion, but he felt that high falling away like the breath slipping out of one at death.

Lestat broke the stillness. “Louis, I can’t read your mind. Say something.” His controlled voice betrayed his caring cover. Or was it so? What if he did really, genuinely care?

Louis moved Lestat’s hand off his shoulder and walked a few steps past him. The crunch of his boots on the mixture of the little rocks and dirt ceased as he stopped in his tracks not a few steps away.

This hadn’t been the best of nights; that much was clear. Too many resurfacing memories and regrets drifted in and out of Louis’ head; some of them stayed to eat their way through his brain and heart as if the pile of regrets was a parasitic lump of worms. Lestat’s unexpected interference and emotional demanding had only eased the path of those regrets, opening an already present rift between them that was dangerously close to breaking apart.

He wanted to be in his study, in peaceful solitude with his mind distracted. Yet he wouldn’t heed his own advice. The pull, the desire of staying with Lestat was too strong. He had become a crutch for the pain he caused Louis and Louis’ own pain. And, after all, it would be difficult to survive on his own in his state. His life in the Blood wasn’t strong enough.

He retraced his steps to Lestat, utterly determined to divert his thoughts, to feel liberation from his harrowing life, even if it wasn’t a true revolution.

“I want you, Louis,” Lestat said so enticingly.

Louis diverted his eyes to the tomb to his left and tried to leave again, but Lestat gripped his arm again.

“No, not until I have what I want. And I know you want it too.” He hated that he was right, that __he could tell.__  

Louis shoved him against the stone wall of one of the tombs, in the dark away from prying human eyes.

“Was human blood not enough for the mortal in you?” Lestat jested. Louis could taste the words’ eerie flavor, but ignored what his gut told him.

Louis, in his delirium, provocatively replied, “Isn’t that why I had to have yours in the first place?” The blood was so close, and all he was was the monster he had become.

“Oh, look at you. Now __you__  take my blood rather than…” he caught his breath as Louis kissed him by the artery under his hardened skin. His words faded to a trailing whisper as he finished his sentence with some effort, “rather than me giving it to you.”

Louis hummed pleasantly. “You could easily push me off,” he said. He leaned his body closer to his maker’s, his hand on Lestat’s thigh.

“But I won’t,” Lestat said.

 He wrapped his hand around the back of Lestat’s neck, his fingers brushing against his blonde hair.

For a moment he was able to separate the desire from the mindful in him. What was he thinking, doing this? He couldn’t think straight; he thought of Lestat’s blood in his mouth and wanted it, wanted to taste it again for it had been far too long. The horror of the ghastly situation was that he wanted what had cursed him to this eternal hell in the first place. It became impossible to resist such a compelling temptation -- especially when that temptation is in juxtaposition with love and desire.

“Take it, Louis. Take my blood.” Lestat gently pushed Louis’ head to his neck again, inviting him. Lestat felt his hot breath on his neck. “Slowly,” he said. Louis had the stench of human blood on his clothes, and his face retained such a human-like gleam that Lestat so very wanted him. He thought for a moment about what should happen if he turned Louis around against the wall in place of himself and take and take until he could take no more.

Why deny himself this pleasure, or at the very least the pleasure of the thought? To taste him, knowing he was absolutely at his mercy, that he wouldn’t resist. But afterwards, Louis would tear away from him in despite and loathing.

It was a horrendous yet inviting image to his needy soul. He wanted this intoxicating and gratifying thought and, though Louis might despise him for this, he would never really hurt him. He was sure the feeling would pass from Louis in time.

Any remorse or guilt he gathered from these images in his head quickly vanished as Louis kissed him on the neck again; one of his fangs cut a sliver of his silky skin, a few droplets of his blood sputtering before the shallow wound healed and closed. Lestat shuddered and put his hands on Louis’ hips, pulling him closer.

And then that glorious rush of arterial blood flowed into Louis, inciting a great lust in him for intimacy -- the closest he could get to that ecstasy as an undead creature. Lestat’s blood was unlike that of any human or animal; it was pure exhilaration, this viscous liquid that tasted like honey but delivered a burning fire lit with passion. He let the blood fill his mouth before swallowing.

But this lovely ardor was cut short as Lestat pushed his head away from his neck with gentle force, lighting a flash of irritation in Louis’ near-animalistic eyes. Lestat pressed him between himself and the wall.

An odd and unsavory emotion crept through Louis -- anxiety. He became acutely aware of how restricted, trapped, he felt. He tried to escape from Lestat, expecting him to let him go, but Lestat insisted that they stay another moment.

“No,” Louis groaned, “Please.”

“So which one is it?” said Lestat as he kissed him roughly.

Lestat closed his teeth on his neck and slowly drew blood from his beloved fledgling.

Louis glimpsed into his maker’s mind; the first wave came in a flood of early pleasant memories, but one image triggered another until it reached the peak of Lestat’s vivid nightmare, searing his heart.

The flow of blood changed again into a frail cover of his happier past. Louis saw and felt his ecstasy when Lestat escaped with the acting troupe, felt his relief at finally being free. How Louis longed for the same freedom.

He fell into a dream, dissociative-like state, lulled by the pull of his blood. Though this excursion had seemed to take its sweet time, it was only within their bubble of escape that it seemed like eternity.

Louis came to, his maker close and warm against him from the shared blood. He leaned his head back against the wall as Lestat released him from an iron grip. His mind still enraptured by this pleasure, he said quietly, “Lestat, I love you, all of you.” __Even if I can’t reach you.__ Even if Lestat didn’t hear him.

He felt the deep rumble of Lestat’s chest as he laughed quietly and pressed closer to kiss him on the mouth. Lestat bit his own tongue, his blood sparking desire again in Louis.

Lestat held him around the waist now, and kissed him on his jaw, breathing in the scent of him. “Come home. Sleep with me before the night is over.”

**Author's Note:**

> My first short story I've written and published on the internet in a while. Hope it wasn't too bad, lol.


End file.
